C. J. Cherryh - Finisterre 2 - Cloud s rider

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Cloud's Rider - CJ Cherryh - Finesterre 02
Cloud’s Rider
C. J. Cherryh
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NEW ENGLISH LIBRARY
Hodder and Stoughton
Copyright © 1996 by C. J. Cherryh
First published in Great Britain in 1997 by Hodder and Stoughton
First published in paperback in 1997
by Hodder and Stoughton A division of Hodder Headline PLC
A New English Library paperback
The right of C. J. Cherryh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been 
asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior

written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of

binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real

persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 0 340 68912 9

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham PLC, Chatham, Kent

Hodder and Stoughton

A division of Hodder Headline PLC

338 Huston Road

London NW1 3BH1

Chapter 1

^ »

The sleet arrived on the wind that howled out of the Firgeberg, gray particles that

abraded skin, stung eyes. Solid crystals sucked by a chance breath over the edge

of the woolen scarf went down a throat already raw with altitude and exertion.

Heart hammered.

Knees ached.

To sweat into clothing that would hold moisture was to freeze. To sweat into

what carried it away too efficiently was to give up vital moisture to the air—and

one layered the clothing and gave up nothing, because a human in the High Wild

couldn’t afford to give up any resource, not the warmth in his face, not the

moisture in his breath, not the day’s ration of food he kept next his body, and not

the nighthorse moving ahead of them on this upward road, breaking through the

shallow drifts.

Especially not the horse.

You didn’t rely on anything in this world of ice and sudden slips but what you

carried on your own person. That was what an experienced high-country rider

had told him, and it was advice Danny Fisher now believed as an article of faith.

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What he’d learned and what he’d heard in a fast outpouring of detail from a

senior rider in a rider shelter at the bottom of this road was going to bring him

through this. It was going to get his horse through this. It was going to get the

three kids behind him through this—

Or at least two of them. The hundred kilos of ironwood travois and supplies the

boys were pulling up this icy road (his horse had better sense) was definitely not

all resource. He personally didn’t give a cold damn for the thirteen-year-old girl

constituting most of that weight, lying bundled and unconscious among their

supplies: but he was fighting like hell for her brothers.

And what he knew to do to get them all to safety now was to climb at a steady

pace, trying to track passing time and changing conditions on this winding road

hung on the edge of the sky, in a reasoned, planned progress from the shelter

they’d left this morning to the shelter they’d reach sometime before dark.

But with the wind getting up and the sleet continuing to come down, when the

reasoned, calculated world slowly disappeared in a veil of sleet and when the

posts that told truck drivers that used this road where the edge was were only

lumps of white in a boil of sleet and old snow, he relied solely on that snow-

veiled darkness, that living sense of shape, life, and <cold nighthorse belly> that

was moving ahead of all of them, to know where to set his feet. The most

valuable asset he ordinarily had from Cloud was that inner sense of the

mountain’s shape—the land-sense that a nighthorse rider gained from his horse at

any distance under three meters.

But all the shape he could perceive right now was the location of himself relative

to Cloud and the two boys, and that stretch of sleeted rubble between him and his

horse and slightly ahead of them. The wildlife from which Cloud drew his

location-sense was all hidden away in burrows, as anything of common sense

was dug in and asleep for the duration of the storm. It took human beings to

choose to trek up here.

Then in the blindness of a sudden gust his horse doubted for an instant where the

road was. Cloud imaged, giddily, <white> and <falling> as he shied back from

what was or was not the edge.

It was enough to make a snow-blinded human who valued that horse above all

human company want to sit down, grab onto the rocks and not budge for an hour.

But he was still standing. And it wasn’t white emptiness beneath Cloud’s three-

toed hoof—but solid, sleeted rock. Danny’s heart was pounding, and that might

be Cloud’s heart or his own or the boys’, but it was Cloud’s four feet that began

walking first, driven by <cold belly> and impatience to be out of this cold. The

boys with the travois hadn’t kept their footing through the scare: they had to pick

themselves up off the ground to get moving, shaken, not wanting to be where

they were any longer, that was for very damn certain.

But they couldn’t stop short of that shelter, not in this wind. Don’t try to camp on

the high end of the Climb: more advice he took on faith from the rider who’d told

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him the route. It was autumn. The temperatures, bitter as they were in this gale-

force wind, hadn’t fallen enough to create a dry cold—and if you ever let damp

form around you in the day, if you sat down where you could pick it up from the

ground or the rocks, or just dressed in such a way that dampness built up, the

windchill would kill you, without argument or excuse.

Tonight’s stopping place, the shelter they were aiming for, could sustain them all

winter if there weren’t the recourse of villages and civilization in front of them, a

string of five such tucked against the mountain’s east face. But there was nothing

in reach behind them but a small shelter that definitely couldn’t sustain them, not

reliably so beyond a few days, and he’d felt compelled this morning to make a

calculated bet on the weather—taking them on a climb that on a good summer

day and with no wind he understood from that same rider as a couple of hours’

ride.

It hadn’t been just a couple of hours. He was sure of that—and it was a long,

weary hike. Cloud wouldn’t—couldn’t—carry him up this steep grade in this

kind of weather. The boys had the travois to pull, and from them he felt

numbness and cold right now, along with a lingering flutter of fear. Cloud’s near-

disaster had called up a rush of adrenaline, and the boys were using too much of

their strength pulling the travois to endure many surprises like that.

Bloody hell—he was scared and shaky. He hadn’t fallen down because he was

used to horse-images in all degrees of urgency and most times reflexively walled

the confusion out. The boys weren’t used to a horse’s sending being that close to

them, and they couldn’t sort it out or keep their feet under them in the crisis.

Or stop themselves from reliving the slip again and again. Cloud’s four-footed

gait had confused their balance and they wouldn’t let the moment go: they’d

confuse Cloud’s balance if they kept it up.

“Quiet,” he had to tell them out loud and in no uncertain terms. After a week

together they knew he didn’t mean any audible noise.

They tried to be quiet and calm down after that—as quiet as two boys could be

who’d thought they were falling off a mountain.

The road they were on, by what he knew of it, followed the folds and bends of

the mountain upward supposedly a kilometer and a half vertical distance from

their initial start on the east face of Rogers Peak—but he’d come to appreciate

how a kilometer and a half vertical translated to walking distance on a mountain.

He’d thought it a pretty straightforward climb. They’d come from the first-stage

shelter across a portion of the south face to reach the midway shelter last night,

and now they were east and up toward the settlements high on the forested

slopes.

But it didn’t do it by logic of what would get there fastest. It did it, he’d

discovered, by the logic of where the builders could hang a road and make it stay

and not slide. It was a road built solely to get the logging trucks and oxcarts up

and down, and the road builders had patched in rubble fill and timber shorings

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wherever its precarious thread crossed a gap narrow enough for them to bridge

over a split in the mountain instead of following the contour all the way back into

a recess. Places like that were wind zones. And where the builders hadn’t found a

bridgeable gap—he and his small party had to walk all the in and out contour of

the mountain, sometimes a considerable distance, until the builders had found a

place to make the road turn back the direction they actually wanted to go.

A couple of hours on a good day—hell. From the midway shelter they’d left at

dawn this morning they could make solid walls again before they slept—that was

what he intended: rest there a couple of days, and beyond that—

Beyond that, day after tomorrow, they’d start across the mountain toward the

villages on a calm day when they could do it without struggle. There was a

doctor in Evergreen, the first and largest of the five settlements. They’d get

advice what to do about thirteen-year-old Brionne, ideally deliver Brionne into a

doctor’s hands within the village proper, which would do as much for her as ever

could be done; after that the boys could find work in Evergreen or one of the

other villages and start their lives over, good luck to them and God help them if

their sister lived.

That would mean he’d done all his conscience told him he had to do, and he

would have carried out a job that had set Tara Chang free to take care of a friend

of his who was wintering down in that cabin before this road. Guil wasn’t well

enough to make this trip—having a hole through his side. While Tara—

Tara hadn’t wanted to have them snowed in with her and Guil. Danny’d been

available to run escort to the next cabin over, which meant Tara didn’t have to do

it. He’d saved her from that situation and gotten on her good side, in his fondest

hopes, by taking the kids on—because if the kids were going to survive to reach

the villages above—if the kids were going to leave that cabin for anywhere in the

world—a rider had to escort them: no one, even experienced in the Wild and

armed to the teeth, could get from one shelter to another without a rider to guard

him—and village kids wouldn’t be safe even inside a shelter and with a gun if

one of the larger, cleverer hunters got the notion there was food inside.

A horse was the protection. A gun was for the mental comfort of the gun owner,

so far as he’d seen.

And guns were, unfortunately, also for human quarrels, in which horses were best

off if they didn’t participate.

And that was the other half of the reason they were on this road in this weather:

thanks to a human quarrel some days before their reaching the place, and not

uninvolved with Guil and Tara, the situation at the first-stage cabin hadn’t been

safe—and matters had combined to say that up the mountain might not only be

their eventual intention, but their immediate necessity.

Because at first-stage a problem had moved in on them—a horse whose rider had

died, a horse attempting to attach itself to any horseless humans in its reach. It

wasn’t unnatural that a grief-stricken horse should do that—but the only

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horseless humans in reach happened to be the two boys he was escorting and, in

his worst nightmares, their sister Brionne.

That had clinched his decision to move on. To hold that cabin otherwise he’d

have had to shoot the horse, which wasn’t an easy choice for a rider. Or he could

have run the gauntlet of its presence and taken them all back to Tara and Guil for

help.

But the last thing in the world he wanted was to come running back for help as

soon as a problem came up with a job Tara clearly, emotionally, didn’t want back

on their doorstep. Next spring he had a rendezvous with her and Guil for a

salvage job—a truck that hadn’t been lucky on these same curves. Guil had as

good as hired him already, there was considerable pay involved from some

company down in Anveney town, and for a junior rider with no working partner,

no references, and no prospects of hire this spring, that was an incredibly good

offer, one which he didn’t intend to foul up by destroying their confidence in

him.

So with the weather seeming likely to hold fair, they’d moved for the next

shelter, higher up the mountain, a barren, hard-rock place where the horse that

had been haunting their vicinity would have no forage and to which it wouldn’t

follow them.

They’d moved again this morning—because of the weather turning foul, on a

choice in which he had less confidence he was right; though thank God they’d

shaken the horse off their trail somewhere between first-stage and midway. It was

lost and desperate—but not that desperate; and it might go back to harass Guil

and Tara, whose two horses would drive it off, or it might finally find the other

strayed horses on the lower skirts of the mountain and find safety with them. So

that part of the problem he’d handled.

That left getting them to the top of this road.

Truth was, this job of escorting the Goss kids, through all the complications that

had so far set in, was the first job he’d ever done completely on his own, and he

didn’t know whether he’d ever actually told Tara so. Guil, who knew, hadn’t

been tracking too well on anything for the time they’d been there, so the matter

of his prior experience hadn’t actually, well, exactly come up. Tara, who knew

this mountain, had been concentrating her efforts on giving him a mental map of

the landmarks and problems involved.

So he didn’t think he’d made the fact of his inexperience quite clear—but he

damn sure wasn’t going to meet two senior riders next spring to confess he’d let

these kids die on the mountain. He’d do the job. He might know a great deal by

now that he didn’t want to know about the Goss family—but he’d do it.

Then Guil and Tara would trust him next spring and give him the responsibility

that would make him hireable by convoys that were only a distant, hard-won

hope for a rider born to a town. He’d lived through enough up here to know he

wanted the high country and that with several good tries it hadn’t killed him. He

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was high on his own survival, he saw a freedom for him and for Cloud he’d never

known, never imagined, in town, and he saw a set of teachers he could otherwise

only dream of—if he could deserve their confidence in him.

Wind blasted into their faces of a sudden. He’d been able to see the rocks on the

right just a second ago and he felt Cloud walking ahead of them, so he wasn’t

disoriented; but suddenly it was just—white, with an abrading blast of sleet that

made him duck his head and shut his eyes.

So had Cloud. That didn’t help his orientation.

“God,” he heard from Carlo, a voice half-drowned in the wind.

“It’s getting worse!” Randy cried.

The boys had stopped walking. Cloud hadn’t. “Keep going!” Danny shouted at

the boys. “It’s probably just this stretch! Snow coming off the height up there!”

“I think it’s coming out of the sky!” Randy cried. Randy was fourteen, two years

younger than Carlo, a year older than Brionne, and the kid had been gutsy and all

right until now—but now <fear> was loud and clear in the ambient of emotions

and images that came at them relayed from Cloud.

<Fear> was suddenly feeding on its own substance, upsetting Cloud, upsetting

Randy as his own panic flooded back at him. Danny clamped down on the

accelerating distress with calm images: <Still water, water flowing over stones.

Snowflakes landing soft and perfect on white snowbank.>

And: “Move!” Danny yelled in a ragged voice that didn’t come out of his throat

half so fierce or so low as he intended. He pushed at Carlo, who was on the right-

hand pole of the travois as Randy was pulling the left, and they struggled into

motion—they were starting across one of those rubble-and-shorings sections, by

the disorganized way the wind was coming at them.

And soon enough the wind was battering their right sides with a vengeance,

pushing them toward the left, where there wasn’t anything but empty air.

Cloud was <mad nighthorse.> Cloud had <cold belly.> Cloud was not pleased

with humans lagging back and distracting him with their stupid arguments in a

cold wind. Cloud wasn’t panicked about the situation, but he was definitely

struggling for footing now, sending more strongly than usual, feeling his way

through the whiteout and using senses that even his rider wasn’t used to having at

the top of the broth of thoughts that was the ambient. Cloud was feeling <wind

on his hide> and getting a vague <mountain-shape> from it somehow, Cloud was

<smelling the wind,> and knowing <sky-side from rock-side> with a range of

discriminations the human brain might not even have categories for. Humans

being sky-fallen strangers to the world and horses being native to it, sometimes a

rider just had to take the little information he could get in his own peculiar way

of understanding and otherwise cast himself on his horse’s sense of direction and

his horse’s four-footed stability.

Sink too deep into Cloud’s sending and he could look out of Cloud’s side-set

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eyes and see the tilt and pitch of his head and end up with two feet too few for the

catch of balance Cloud made in the gusts. Randy slipped and fell, or lost his

balance in Cloud’s noisy sending, Danny didn’t know. He grabbed the kid’s coat

and got the kid on his feet again, travois and all, still letting the brothers do the

physical labor.

A nighthorse didn’t wear harness or carry cargo. Neither did a rider. It was his

job to know where they were—and not to be distracted by a travois bumping

along and resisting. He had no possessions in the world but his guns, his

emergency supplies, the life-and-death stuff like waterproof matches, knife,

hatchet, pans, a little food, cord, bandages, most of which made a very compact

tin-cased package, his last kit having proven unmanageable; and hell, no, he

didn’t trust his personal kit to their damn travois. Carlo had the shotgun and a

pistol— but the ammunition, which was heavy, Danny had most of, plus the rifle.

And when this morning the boys had wanted to pile everything including his kit

on the travois, they’d had sharp and angry words about it.

Oh, but they were pulling it anyway for Brionne, Carlo and Randy had protested.

And it was easier to pull their supplies on it than carry them on their backs. It

only made sense.

Listen to me, he’d said, and laid the law down as best he could.

They’d ignored his advice at least as regarded their personal supplies. He’d heard

the maxim down in Shamesey, Don’t ever get friendly with the convoy. Don’t

make friends of anybody you have to guide. And he knew why, now. He was

close to friendship with Carlo, as close as a rider and a villager could come—and

having clearly and in front of both brothers gotten his orders from Guil and Tara,

he didn’t seem to have the credible authority to tell Carlo no. Carlo was on a

mission. Carlo was doing a Good Thing. That meant God was with them in

getting up this mountain and getting away from that stray horse that wanted his

sister.

That was the villager mentality. God was with them and gravity didn’t count.

Maybe a lot of things else didn’t count in Carlo’s head either. Damn sure some of

them didn’t add. Danny had a good idea what was driving Carlo, and it wasn’t

love for his sister.

Guilt, maybe. Atonement. There had been a village called Tarmin at the bottom

of the road. It wasn’t there now. Every man, woman, child and sleeping baby in

that town had died the worst death imaginable on Carlo’s sister’s account.

That was the news they carried toward the villages above, and the girl

responsible for it all was the burden they’d lugged up this road.

For what? Danny asked himself—and thought as he’d thought more than once on

this trek upward that Tara Chang had been right in the first place: there was

nothing particularly sacred about a thirteen-year-old life that wasn’t equally

sacred about a person who’d proved himself a decent human being for twice that

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number of years.

And three human lives and a good horse were damn sure more valuable than a

self-willed girl with only a remote chance of recovering—but here they were, and

they tried, and they hung on.

The light had gone to that murky gray that heralded a thick spot in the clouds

directly overhead. Sleet scoured off the rubble surface of the road in the windy

zones and piled up in banks where the wind gave it up. Where it lay thick it

afforded traction—but yesterday’s sun had created melt off a previous fall that

had already frozen. Worse—there’d been high humidity this morning and the

temperature had fluctuated. They were dealing with patches of ice, and those

patches were growing more frequent on this stretch of the road.

Then—then by the pitch of a twenty-percent grade and a sudden shift in what

Cloud felt and smelled of the wind, he knew a picture he’d gotten from Tara, that

right-angled turn in the road that led around flat before it climbed—that point

where if they walked straight ahead and didn’t bend very abruptly to the right,

they’d go over the rim and into white nowhere, straight down, no barriers, no

warning.

Truckers’ hell, the sharp turn and the abrupt up or down grade that led to it. That

was where the truck had gone off that Guil and Tara meant to salvage. That was

where Guil’s partner had lost her life—Tara had warned him of it, and, God, it

had to be. A lot of the landmarks Tara had imaged to him he couldn’t find with

the sleet coming down like this, but she’d dwelt heavily on this one image, and

the hell of it was—the thing that made him suddenly sick at his stomach—

He’d thought they’d passed this essential landmark turn a long time back.

So they weren’t as far up the mountain as he’d thought they were. The whole

scale of the problem shifted on him. They weren’t making the time he’d thought.

And that affected—

Everything. Every estimate. Every hope.

Midway was hours behind them. If this was in fact the infamous turn—that

meant everything he’d been sure he knew the position of was completely off.

And if his reckoning where they were on the mountain was off— he wasn’t sure

of the elapsed time, either, and he couldn’t find the sun: it could have passed

behind the mountain into afternoon, for all he could tell. Light spread through the

storm with no distinction.

He caught <scared> from the boys, who’d surely picked up his distress. He

caught <white and cold.> A lot of that. He caught <cold nighthorse,> and

<white> and <cold, sore feet> from up ahead, where Cloud negotiated that

dreadful turn—and the damned travois, that had cost them so much time, bucked

and bumped over the uneven surface beside him.

Two hours for this damn trek in high summer.

Dammit, he didn’t know how he could be that far wrong—except if midway

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wasn’t at all mid-way from first-stage—and, he recollected with a sinking

feeling, he’d learned already that the road crews put things not where they’d like

to have them but where they could put them. One set of expectations was skewed

by processes he hadn’t thought about, and other expectations could be, reason

told him in this thunderstruck moment, thrown off by the same logic. He’d

assumed by the name of midway—where he had no business to assume.

But panic didn’t serve anybody. They’d make the shelter. Just—maybe—not

before dark.

A little beyond that turn a fold of the mountain came between them and the worst

gusts. Cloud stopped and turned his tail to the wind that did reach them, taking a

breather on his own schedule and at his opportunity, which Cloud did when his

needs exceeded the rests they took.

At such moments Danny and the Goss boys had generally stopped standing—but

a pileup of sleet against the mountain afforded them a brake on the travois’

tendency to skid downhill and afforded a chance for a rest. Danny saw it, turned

his own back to the gale and stood there just breathing, with the wind battering

the back brim of his hat flat up against his head, and waited as a living signpost

in the haze until the two muffled figures overtook him with the travois.

Then he squatted down, and fell the last bit onto his rump, his knees beyond pain

and refusing such delicate adjustments. He got up into a crouch his legs didn’t

want to hold, but did, as Carlo had sat down after much the same fashion—he’d

taken to heart the lesson about not sitting on the ground, but Randy just collapsed

helplessly downward and stayed.

Blacksmith’s kids, both, and Carlo had the height and the arms Randy had yet to

grow to. Carlo shoved his brother, said simply, “Squat,” and Randy managed to

get up off the ground and hold the position, with Carlos strong arm around him.

After that no one had the energy to talk, just sat huddled up against the wind, the

boys probably with the same sick headache, Danny thought, that increasingly

pounded behind his sinuses and behind his eyes and around his skull.

It was altitude causing that. He’d felt it a little down at the cabin with the senior

riders, and Guil had warned him it could get debilitating—which he couldn’t

afford right now. Mouth was dry. They hadn’t eaten all day. He didn’t think he

could swallow the thawed food he carried; eating snow relieved the dryness but

chilled the bones, so he just took a little mouthful, after which he shut his

eyes—partly to ease the headache and partly just to warm them from the wind.

But even with his eyes shut, he saw them all <sitting in snow> from Cloud’s

senses, a moving sort of vision as Cloud came trudging back. <Tired horse, ice

lumps in his tail, banging against his hocks.>

He had so much rather have nursed his headache and caught his breath

undisturbed, but he couldn’t let that annoyance go on. He bestirred himself to

check over Cloud’s feet for ice-cuts: the threefold hooves had a soft spot high up

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C. J. Cherryh - Finisterre 2 - Cloud s rider

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